


Safe

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Comfort, Episode Related, M/M, Missing Scene, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Eindhoven, Winters and Nixon dig in for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omphale23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/gifts).



> I couldn't work Lipton into this, but since it's an extra, I hope this will still make you happy.

The night sky was painted red and orange by the flames from Eindhoven and bright with the arcing white light of tracers. When Captain Lewis Nixon came upon his friend Captain Dick Winters, he was silhouetted against the colors of destruction, the set of his shoulders and looseness of his stance telling Nixon that he took these events far worse than he would willingly let on.

After years together of struggle and training and hard, hard work, they had come to know each other so well that it now took Nixon but a quick glance to measure the extent of what was happening inside his friend. "They're bombing Eindhoven," was what Dick said in words, but there was a universe of other thoughts and feelings contained within them.

Dick would take all of it personally. He knew better, he knew what retreat and defeat and all the rest of the failures that go along with such things meant, but in Dick's mind, he would be personally responsible. That was simply the kind of man Dick was, and why the men in his command would pretty much follow him to the ends of the earth.

Nix did the only thing he could do: stand behind Dick and let him sort it out for himself. It was one of many lessons he'd been schooled in about the right way to be this man's friend. There was a balance with Dick -- not too casual, yet not too close. He was a strong, I-stand-alone kind of fellow, but at the same time he valued others' feelings and honest emotion. He was never glib, never shallow; in return, you had to be loyal and trustworthy but never smothering. That was a tough balance for someone as casual as Nixon, and the only other people he'd seen who could strike it were Harry Welsh and Carwood Lipton, and only from time to time.

When Dick turned around at last, the light of the horizon aflame flickered across his pale face, and he said, "Come on, Nix. We'll dig in for the night." He spared Nixon a weary glance. Still worried about Sergeant Bull Randleman, certainly, but that wouldn't be the only one weighing on his mind. Four dead, Lipton had told them, and all Dick's fault -- to his way of thinking.

"Won't be waving so many orange flags at us tomorrow," Nixon said with his usual fatalistic humor, but Dick merely looked at him as they staggered, exhausted and soul-weary, away from the terrible view. They found a spot for a foxhole not too far away from the rest of the men, but separate enough from listening ears and the stench of the trucks.

Dick threw his gear down and attacked the wet dirt with his shovel; Nix followed suit, but not half so earnestly. This was his friend's way of getting it all out; he didn't have a bottle of whiskey to hit or a cigarette to suck on or any other vices that might dull the ache just a little bit. After a while Nixon looked up from his task, wiped away some sweat, and noticed that Dick was staring in the direction of that bitter orange sky again.

"They'll evacuate most of them tomorrow. The survivors, anyway. Trouble is, this is about the most densely packed country you'll ever set foot in." Sometimes Nix took comfort in repeating the random facts at the intelligence officer's disposal; it helped move things from the personal to the abstract.

"The survivors," he repeated. "They're all catching hell tonight," Dick added thoughtfully, and Nixon smiled at the rare use of a mild expletive.

Nixon plunked his shovel into the soil and took a swig from his flask. "Bull can take care of himself, maybe better than we could if it was us."

"If he's still alive." The finality with which Dick said that filled Nixon with a kind of dread he was unused to. Of course he cared what happened to Bull, he liked Bull and admired his avuncular leadership style and constant, creative bitching. But the sharp difference between Lewis Nixon and Dick Winters was most evident here: Winters more than cared; if there was even the slightest possibility they could get Bull back, he would take it. No, he would run through hell's hottest fires for it.

"When daylight comes, we'll scout out where we fell back." Nixon picked up his shovel again in order to let Dick take a rest.

He couldn't tell if Dick acknowledged that or not. When he was Silent Sam, there wasn't much to do. They dug together for a while until the hole met with Dick's approval, and then hopped in. The ground was cold and dank, and even with their small tarp his behind felt wet and clammy. He noticed then that Dick was shivering.

"What's up?" Nix asked.

Dick searched for an answer. "Cold, I guess. Long day." He gave a half-snort.

"Hang on." Nixon jumped out and beelined for one of the ordnance trucks. After rummaging around for a bit he found what he wanted and came back. Dick was working at some meager K-rations with little glee. Everything about him was mechanical by now, rote movements of survival. Watching him from a few steps away, Nix understood that this part of Dick seemed so different to him because it _was_ different: Dick was not used to defeat of any kind, personal or professional.

The boys would follow Dick to the ends of the earth. Hell, probably most of the command would follow him, too; he was that kind of fellow. He doubted that anyone even saw the possibility of self-doubt in their captain. Nix had never missed an opportunity to tease Dick about being without flaws, even telling Harry that Dick had neither vices nor a sense of humor. But that wasn't true; it was merely that Dick wasn't obvious about those things.

Oh, the vices he was definitely short on, but Dick had a subtle, wry sense of humor, and Nix was pretty sure there were a couple of flaws only he was privy to. The worst was pride. Not the kind of pride one could call hubris, the very sort that had forced them into this war. There was no arrogance or selfishness about the Winters pride, just a refusal to admit that he was only human, and not always in control. His pride battled the humility needed to retreat, and Nix wasn't sure which one was losing.

"Et voila," he said with a flourish, unfurling a larger tarp he'd stolen off the truck. "The master scrounger strikes again." It smelled of oil and rusty metal, but it would cover them up pretty well, and maybe Dick could rest.

Dick tossed his can away and wiped some of the grime from his face while Nixon weighted the edges with some stones, then hopped in and pulled it over the top of their little hole. In the faint light creeping in at the corners he could just barely make out Dick's profile. Nix shifted over next to him. Still shivering.

This was a privilege that Dick afforded only to Nix -- seeing him with his guard down, glimpsing the real man underneath this stoic leader of men.

Nix could still remember when he'd first really noticed Dick, a man he'd thought too ramrod-straight, too serious to be worth his time. They had stood at parade rest as the bellowing Old Army sergeant barked instructions at them on how to use a "trenching tool," and Dick had quietly muttered under his breath, "It's a _shovel_." Nix knew then that Dick was going to be his friend.

That was the signature of his humor: no one expected it, this quiet, serious young man some of the soldiers supposed was a Quaker. Never obvious or attempting to impress others with his wit, never one to clown around. It helped keep Nixon grounded and balanced, reined in just enough to not get himself in trouble. More than amply aware of his own flaws, Nixon had responded strongly to this person who could keep him on the straight and narrow while still sharing his outlook on life.

"We'll start fresh tomorrow," Nix said again, even though he knew it was an empty statement; emptier still if they didn't find Bull.

"Go get those old men and kids of yours."

"You will never let me live that down, will you?"

"I plan to get as many opportunities out of it as possible." Dick closed his eyes.

Nixon took a few bites of his own rations and felt like spitting them back up. Dick wrapped his arms around himself, leaning his head back on the dirt. "I don't know what I expected," Dick said absently.

"About what?"

"Just... what I thought it would be like to get knocked back. Does that make us arrogant?"

"Nah. We just shouldn't have relied on the Limeys."

Dick gave a little snort; reaching down, he fumbled in the dark until he found Nixon's helmet and lifted it up.

"Pretty close call," he said, running a finger over the bullet hole in the front of the helmet. "You thought it was pretty funny afterward."

"Well, you've got to admit, it's either laugh or scream." Nix wanted to add "or get drunk" but that was an option the teetotaler didn't understand.

Dick went quiet for a long time. "Somehow I didn't expect that, either."

"You're being awfully cryptic tonight. Not to mention cynical. Are you trying to impersonate me?" Nix asked.

"That'll be the day."

"Then what's eating you?"

"It was a shock, that bullet. Somehow I never really thought of you getting hit," Dick said softly.

Nixon laughed. "_That's_ what this is about? A little scorch mark on my forehead and an aerated helmet? You're too sentimental, my friend."

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark he could see Dick a little more clearly, though not well enough to really get a look at the profound blue eyes that had always taken Nix by surprise.

Ducking his head, Dick continued, apparently embarrassed. "I've gotten used to you being out there on your own, skulking around. You can take care of yourself, you're the best at what you do. But the rest of the time, you're planning, you're back there. You're safe. I forget that you're not, not really. Not as long as we're in a war."

"Well, that's what we came here for, Dick. I hate to break it to you." Nix slid his hand to the back of Dick's neck, running his thumb just under his ear. Probably they shouldn't do this; they'd kept it apart from the work, because they had to. But this was different in every way.

He pulled Dick tight against him, tucking his face in the crook of his shoulder, resting a cheek against Dick's. "Here all this time I was worrying about you," Nix said quietly, pressing his hand harder to the back of Dick's neck.

It had simply never occurred to him that Dick would worry. All this time it had been Lieutenant Winters risking everything in combat, Captain Winters taking the lead on dangerous missions, unhesitatingly and without compromise. He put his life on the line, far more than Nixon ever had, or likely ever would.

"Nix..."

"Yeah, I know." But he made no move to let go of Dick, and neither did Dick let go of him.

It had been early days when they had first come together this way. Over time it had become so easy although infrequent; they would find each other on occasion, when they needed to, and didn't speak of it beyond that. What had surprised Nixon wasn't that they were doing such a thing, but that someone like Dick Winters would allow it to happen. And still, Lewis Nixon had sensed that this was as important to Dick as it was to him.

On the ship over to Europe, there had been a few times when Nixon played sick just so he could get the room alone with Dick, who would stay behind as his caretaker. No one wanted to be trapped in the crowded spaces with a seasick drinker. They were careful then, never furtive or wild. If Harry, who was nearly as close to Dick as he was, had any idea, he never showed it. And though he had wondered if the enlisted men saw something between them, he deliberately chose to ignore the possibility, because he didn't want to risk giving it up. Wherever they were, they found a way to find each other, as if it was the most regular thing in the world. There was comfort in it, friendship, and yes, love, even though that was a word he had never imagined using for another man.

What he felt for Dick was inexplicable even to him. Not like his feelings for his family, for his wife and child. He knew all the cliches about the closeness of men in combat, their brotherhood and devotion to one another, but he and Dick had come upon each other long before combat.

If Lewis Nixon were inclined toward the poetic -- which he was, but only when drunk -- he would say it was a deeper love, more true than romantic or familial love. The kind of thing the Greeks and the Romans had written about. He could not explain it to anyone, not even really to Dick, who would probably give him that wry, almost patronizing smile. It was a force he'd never known in his life, and for that reason alone it was more important than any other feeling.

Nix held Dick's head in the crook of his neck, running his hand up and down Dick's arm, trying to warm him up. Slowly, Dick relaxed against him, and the shivering stopped. After a time, Dick turned his face up to Nix, who met his lips with a tender, nipping kiss. Nix heard the soft, pulsing sound of his own heartbeat in his ears as Dick pulled him tighter against him, and then the soft, shallow breaths Dick took as Nix slipped his hand inside the fly of Dick's pants. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, considering the weight of the day and the situation they were in, but it was beyond him not to take advantage of a moment alone. Especially a moment when Dick actually needed him.

Before long, Dick did the same thing for him, and they touched one another with smooth, gentle strokes, punctuated by kisses, until each was released. Wordlessly they cleaned themselves up, as if none of it had happened. Dick surprised him by settling back against Nix, allowing himself the luxury of being held.

Nixon waited, as the sound of rain began pattering on the tarp above them. In the distance, the bombs still thundered. Dick usually moved away from him by now to avoid being caught out if someone came to talk to them.

But Dick didn't move away, and much to his own surprise, Nixon was glad of that. For now, worry was a day away, their failures hidden from view; it was only them in a trench, holding on with desperation to the fragments of their connection.

At some point, Lipton would arrive and the day would bring them back out into a world they didn't want, so Nix just held tight to Dick, for now, in this one.


End file.
